


The Dubious Savior

by Starlingthefool



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Kinkmeme, M/M, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-22
Updated: 2010-07-22
Packaged: 2017-10-10 18:15:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlingthefool/pseuds/Starlingthefool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, and it's John Watson's crap luck that his car breaks down. Luckily, he gets picked up by a stranger, who offers to give him a ride. (Make all the puns you want.)</p><p>Uh, this is basically porn without the actual porn, and was written as a SHkinkmeme fill for stella_polaris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dubious Savior

Of course, it's raining as well.

It's past midnight on a deserted road, his car's engine has quit, his cellphone is dead, and of course, it's raining. Not just a gentle spring rain, oh no, but a heavy, driving rain that's pounding against the car roof.

Watson wonders when his skin is going to break out in boils, as he's obviously turned into Job. He rests his head against the steering wheel and considers his options.

One: start walking. There are no houses in sight, but he's fairly sure he passed one at some point.

Two: sleep in the car. Deal with it all after a few hours of sleep. He's just come off of a hellish twelve hour shift, and walking in the rain after that holds zero appeal. Sleeping in his Ford holds only slightly more.

"Hell," Watson says, reclining his seat. He pulls his coat around him as a makeshift blanket, shifts a few times as he tries to get comfortable, then gives up and passes out.

***

Watson jolts awake at a knock on his window. He rubs his eyes, sits up, and rolls down the window. There's a man standing there, collar on his jacket pulled up. It's still dark outside, but the rain has slowed to a drizzly mist.

"You know it's dangerous to pull off the road like this?" the man says.

"My car died," Watson says. "It wasn't by choice."

The man looks at the car, then back at Watson. "A Ford? That's practically asking for it. Terrible cars."

Watson blinks. Apparently, this man is the next plague some vindictive deity has chosen to punish him with. "Do you have a phone I could use?" he asks anyway. "I need to call a tow truck."

"Back at my house. I'll give you a ride."

This is becoming more and more like the premise of a softcore porn. Or a horror movie, Watson thinks.

God, he needs more sleep.

"Okay," Watson says, shaking off thoughts of mass murderers and porn stars. He rolls up the window, grabs his bag off the passenger seat, and opens the door. The other man watches him; there's an interest in his eyes that Watson, even exhausted as he is, can't fail to notice. Watson checks him out as well: shorter than he is, skinny, messy hair wet with rain, stubble on his jaw. Cute enough. Watson feels like he hasn't gotten laid since dinosaurs roamed the earth, or at least since he started at the hospital. That, and the fact that he's had less than five hours of sleep in the last 48 hours, are his excuses for even thinking like this.

The man drives a Saab, newish, leather seats. He unceremoniously tosses the numerous papers, books, binders, and food wrappers in the back and then holds the door open for Watson. Watson lets himself get a little closer than is strictly necessary as he sits down.

The Saab's interior is warm, and smells of tobacco, aftershave, and coffee. Watson holds his hands up to the heater, as the other man opens the driver side door and gets in.

"Cold?" he asks. At Watson's shrug – he's not freezing, but he's been sleeping in an unheated car for the last couple hours – the man turns the heat up, then flips another switch. "Seat warmers," he says smugly. "Bet that crap Ford doesn't have that."

Watson feels insulted on behalf of his Ford, even though it really is a crap car. "It's good enough. Gets me where I need to go."

"Until tonight," the man says, as he starts to drive.

"Eh," he replies, still vaguely annoyed. After a moment, he adds, "I'm John, by the way. John Watson. And thanks for letting me use your phone."

"Sherlock Holmes. And you're welcome. You work at the hospital?"

It takes a second for Watson's brain to catch up with the sudden subject change. "Yeah, how did–"

"Parking sticker on the windshield. And there was the Cruceus sticker on the back. You were in the army as well?"

Watson blinks. "I was a medic for two tours."

"Afghanistan, probably. Discharged after being wounded?"

"..."

"And used the pension towards medical school. Well done. And now you've just finished your residency, and are on your first posting as a G.P."

"Excuse me?" Watson says.

"A Ford like that is a student cars, and obviously, you have yet to upgrade. You're either cheap or poor. Probably a combination of both, I imagine."

Watson stares at him, mouth open.

Holmes catches the look, and shifts in his seat. "Sorry."

"Do you do that to every stranger you meet in the middle of the night?" Watson asks, not in the least mollified by the apology.

"Only the interesting ones," Holmes says, and then shuts his mouth with a snap.

Watson suppresses a grin.

"Well, that's all right then," he says. "So long as I'm not boring you. But what about you?"

Holmes eyes him, a trifle warily. Watson grins. He's not tired anymore. He must be getting his second (or third, maybe) wind.

"I'm not that interesting," Holmes says, shrugging, and even he doesn't sound like he's convinced by the words.

"Right," Watson says, looking out the window. "You're just a random guy with a London accent, driving through the countryside in the middle of the night, no cell phone, coming to my rescue while insulting my Ford and extolling the virtues of your Saab's seat-warmers. And then you diagnose my history from the stickers on my car. Yeah, boring my arse."

Holmes is smiling. "Forward. I like that."

"You don't strike me as someone who really cares. Where is your house, anyway?" He squints into the darkness. It's hard to imagine anyone living out here.

"It's actually my brother's place. I'm house-sitting for the week while he's in Italy. Or Greece. I forget which. Anyway, it's not much further." Holmes rolls the window down a crack and pulls a cigarette from the pack on the dashboard.

"So what do you do?" Watson asks again.

"Crime scene investigation. Like those CSI shows, only much more time in the lab, and nobody is as good-looking."

"Beg to differ," Watson mutters.

"What?"

"I said you shouldn't smoke. Terrible habit."

"Ugh, doctors," Holmes said. He shifts into fourth gear as they crest the top of a hill, accelerating. "No, I shouldn't smoke. I shouldn't drive so fast either. And I probably shouldn't pick up strange men in the middle of the night and offer to take them back to my brother's fancy house in the country either. And yet, here we are."

"Overriding our better judgements," Watson says.

"Quite." Holmes grins cheekily at him, exhaling smoke out his nostrils. He makes it look absurdly sexy. Watching the man smoke, Watson can almost forget about small-cell lung cancer and emphysema. Almost.

Holmes reaches for the gearshift and – oops – misses his mark, fumbling against Watson's thigh for a moment, before finding the knob and shifting to fifth.

Watson looks at Holmes, who is studiously watching the road, and looking far too innocent.

"If you're going to be subtle," Watson says, "we'll miss each other in the dark."

"What?"

"It's a line from a play," Watson replies.

"Yeah? Meaning what?"

Watson takes Holmes' free hand and puts it on his thigh. Holmes sucks in a breath, but he doesn't remove his hand or resist the movement. Instead, after a second of hesitation, his fingers start rubbing warm circles on the thin cloth of Watson's trousers. Watson leans back into the warm leather seat.

"Seat-warmers," he says after a second. "Nice." He's feeling tired again; or not exactly tired, but mellow. Holmes' hand warm on his thigh, the heaters running full blast, the rumble of the engine, the quiet murmur of some piano-violin duet coming out of the speakers; it's all putting him into a state of relaxed contemplation. And what he's contemplating are the things he would like to do with this man, tonight, should he be amenable.

"You seem... remarkably blasé about this," Holmes says, interrupting his thoughts. "I had you pegged as someone a little more uptight."

"I am, generally speaking." He grins as Holmes' hand inches upwards. "But it's 2:14 in the morning, and, you know... sleep deprivation. Hell on my sense of propriety."

"And you probably haven't gotten laid since you got your MD, right?"

That's just about right, but Watson isn't going to admit it. He glares at Holmes, who's grinning maniacally at him. "Eyes on the road," Watson says crossly.

The hand moves to his crotch, and Watson gasps. His fingers dig into the leather seats, and he bites his lip as Holmes massages him through his clothes.

"Don't be cross," Holmes says. "We were getting on so well." Holmes gives him a friendly squeeze, and Watson can't help it, he moans. Then the pressure and heat is suddenly gone, and Holmes is turning the car into a long driveway.

"We're here," Holmes says, killing the engine. Watson gapes at him. Then he looks at the house, and finds himself gaping even more.

It's huge. Disgustingly so. It's big and ostentatious and absolutely out of character for this area, all imposing brick and manicured front garden. "I know," Holmes says. "It's hideous, isn't it? Come on."

Grabbing his bag, Watson follows Holmes out of the car to the front door. Inside, Holmes immediately goes to the living room deactivate the alarm system, leaving Watson stumbling out of his shoes in foyer.

That done, Holmes drops his jacket on the ground and collapses on a lounge, eyes watching Watson. Watson takes the time to hang up his coat on one of the hooks on the wall, and walks slowly over to Holmes. Holmes is splayed out on the lounge, hand on his stomach, legs opened, other arm thrown behind his head. An open invitation. Watson drops his bag on the floor by his feet.

"Phone's in the kitchen," Holmes says softly.

"I'll call in a while. Dispatcher's probably asleep, yeah?"

"Sure. Besides, out here, tow trucks could take hours to arrive."

Watson plants one knee by Holmes' side, then leans down. And then, mouth only inches from Holmes' he pauses. "Is this a going to be a bad idea?"

Holmes blinks. "Is now really the best time for second thoughts?"

"You're a stranger, I know nothing about you, this is a big ugly house in the country, and we're about to have wild sex and then never see each other again. Am I going to regret this tomorrow?"

Holmes considers him for a moment. "I think a better question would be, will you regret not doing it? Because you can go and use the phone, and I'll drive you back to your car to wait for your tow. No hard feelings. You can go home, go to the hospital tomorrow, make your rounds at that god-awful clinic, taking care of the farmers with heart disease and the colicky babies. Thinking the entire time what it could have been like, all the things we could have done to each other."

His voice is a rough whisper at the end of the diatribe. He puts his hand on Watson's neck, fingers massaging the muscles. Watson shuts his eyes, thinks about Holmes' hand on his cock in the car.

"Or," Holmes continues, "We could fuck. I know which I would prefer, but the choice is up to y–"

Watson kisses him to shut him up. Then kisses him because of the amazing way that Holmes moans, deep in the back of his throat. Then kisses him because it'd be insane to stop.

"Wait, wait, hold on a second," Holmes mutters, pushing Watson away.

"What? What is it?"

"I promised myself, that if the chance ever arose, I'd do this," he says, struggling to sit up.

"Do what?" Watson asks, feeling nervous. He just hopes Holmes isn't going to pull out a knife or chainsaw or something.

Holmes sits up, looks Watson dead in the eye; his expression is serious, but there's a gleam in his eye that puts Watson on his guard. Then, Holmes claps his hands twice.

There's a brief hiss, and then the fireplace behind them suddenly ignites, burning merrily.

"You're fucking kidding me," Watson says, as Holmes collapses in gales of laughter.

"Sorry, sorry, I had to do it–"

Watson pounces on him.

***

The night proceeds in a slow, dreamy progression, a montage of tastes and images: bare skin in firelight, the taste of sweat on the back of Holmes' knee, teeth grazing his navel, digging his fingers into the nap of the rug while Holmes fucks him.

There's an hour of sleep and then porridge and tea for breakfast, sometime around seven. Watson calls the tow truck, and then Holmes gives him a blowjob at the kitchen table as a goodbye.

An hour later, he's leaning against the boot of his car, watching Holmes' black Saab drive away. His only regret, at that moment, is that he'll probably never see the other man again.

***

Of course, he's wrong.

***

_Eight months later._

Another day, another midnight shift. It was a slow night at the clinic – the brief lull between flu season and true spring, when most accidents occur. It's been pissing down rain, on an off, all week, keeping most sane people inside.

It's been a week since he got hired by St Mary's, which might be part of the reason he's been in a good mood of late. It's not that he utterly hates the countryside; he just utterly hates living and working in it. He's been ready to go back to London since he left. Now, it's just a matter of weeks.

He notices the car on the side of the road, but doesn't pay much attention. Most of his mind is occupied by thoughts of a shower and sleep. He drives right by the figure walking by the side of the road, about a mile past the car, as well.

It takes a few moments before he steps on the brakes, jerking to a stop. It's impossible. It could not have been him. It would be too much of a coincidence. Holmes has been in his thoughts lately, what with the upcoming move to London and all. He's fantasized about seeing the man again; sentimental as it sounds, the memories of their encounter have gotten him through some of his more lonely nights.

He could chalk it up to mere sentimentality, but there was something there between them. A potential for more. Holmes even remarked about it when they parted. Watson had just smiled, too tired and well-fucked to give it much thought at the time.

Watson shifts into reverse and drives back, until he can see the man in his mirror. He's strolling down the deserted highway, cigarette in hand, in the drizzling rain, as if this were the middle of the day in a park. Watson shifts into park, and lets the man come to him.

"Good evening," Holmes says, poking his head in the window. "Thanks for stop..." He trails off as he gets a good look at Watson. "Huh," he says.

"Hello again," Watson says.

Holmes stares at him for a moment. "Would you believe that I was just thinking about you?"

Watson smiles, a little. For the life of him, he can't think of a thing to say.

"You got rid of the Ford, I see," Holmes says after a moment. "What is this, a '98?"

"'99. I upgraded," Watson says, patting the dashboard of the Mercedes. "That was your Saab back there?"

Holmes nods. "Transmission seems to have shat the bed. I was just walking back to my brother's to call for a tow."  
"Do you– Can I give you a ride?"

Holmes smiles, opens the door, and slides in. "This is all delightfully ironic."

"I agree," Watson says, turning the heat up.

"Not that I'm complaining," Holmes says, slouching down and giving Watson a rather significant look. "It's almost providential."

"I'm just happy to return the favor."

"Would it be too presumptuous of me if I say I'll make it worth your while?"

Watson finds himself hoping that Holmes won't be able to see him blush. The man's laughter, and the warm touch of a hand on his thigh, tell him otherwise.

**Author's Note:**

> This is pretty irrelevant, but it's my belief as the author that Mycroft actually somehow set this entire thing up.


End file.
